


Go On Pretending

by stickingwithlou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depictions of Childhood Sexuality, F/M, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Illness, Nuclear Warfare, Nuclear Weapons, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nuclear War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Sad Ending, Sexism, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Violence, War, World War III
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5629540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickingwithlou/pseuds/stickingwithlou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Paper beats Rock. Rock beats Scissors. Nuclear Warfare beats Young Love.</i> </p>
<p>Title taken from "All The Years" by Beach House</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go On Pretending

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains **mature** subject matter, including but not limited to: suicide/major character death, racism, homophobia, and sexism. Chapter to chapter warnings will not be included, so please read the tags!
> 
> This story's been banging around in my head, driving me crazy, so I thought I'd get it out....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Joyce Carol Oates's short story by the same name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some framing to begin with, future chapters will be longer..

At 4, Louis spends his afternoons in the care of his grandmother. She's to blame his unhealthy tolerance to cigarette smoke and his advanced, far-too-colorful vocabulary.

Time with his gran leaves something to be desired. Companionship isn't her strong suit, especially with someone unable to indulge in a conversation-lubricating martini.

A cable package, complete with cartoons, solves the problem.

Today the volume's low, the animated hum drowned out by the rasp of his gran’s voice in the other room. Onscreen, the ever-cheerful Sally Squirrel explains nuclear attack safety procedures, oversized teeth bared. Louis inches closer to the swollen screen, close enough to see the pixelation. Sally's mouth opens and closes around words, but they remain lost to Louis.

Gran's voice grows louder with each passing minute, and Louis lets his attention drift from the program to her words. “-and those fucking towel heads,” followed by the clink of a glass on the Formica. “Jay's shipping off again next month. Too special to work in a hospital like a _normal_ woman. Needs to go to some godforsaken desert to get her kicks. She’s got a child now, you'd think she'd settle down, be a proper mum, a proper _wife_.”

On the way home, Louis asks his mum why someone would wear “a towel on their head, that’s weird”. After that, he spends his afternoons elsewhere.

* * *

In primary, Louis fidgets through a lesson on current events. Mr. O'Hara overuses the words "us" and "them", and it seems that, now, the world is _us_ ’s and _them_ ’s.

Louis doesn't know much of _the_ world. But he knows _his_ world. At home, us and them is clear.

Us 

Louis

Mum

Charlotte

Felicity

 

Them 

Dad

* * *

They move out of London after Louis' 10th birthday. Things'll get better, says his mother. She’ll get over it, says his father. They don’t. She doesn’t.

* * *

They're back in London for good, she promises. The alimony allows for a bigger place in the city. 13 means he’s old enough to have his own room, now. Old enough to _know_ things, too. Happy things, like the news of his mother's pregnancy. Sad things, too. About the war, and his mother's part in it. And his own part in it, when he turns 18.

_The Draft._ Everyone's mad about it. At school, the boys talk about the guns they'll carry and the uniforms they'll wear. They shave their heads and spend their allowances on the newest _Call of Duty_ game.

They're "everything that's wrong with the world", says his mother as she smears lavender paint on the walls. "Ignore them, baby. Come help your mum. Sadie told me I ought to have a color scheme for the nursery. Bullshit, I say. They're babies, how will they know the difference?"

Three hours later, they're covered in more paint than the walls, doubled over in laughter. 

Things stay that good, for a while.  

* * *

His mum leaves. She doesn't have to go. She wants to. Because the twins won't stop _crying, a_ nd the dishes need washing. She's not cut out for this, she tells someone on the phone. _I belong over there._

She doesn't have to go. But she does. She shouldn't have.

* * *

Death means food. Forgotten aunts and chipper cousins drop by with mashes and casseroles and scrambles.

They don't know what to do with him. They mustn't, because no one speaks to him. They pet his cheeks, apologize, pile his plate with more food.

Dad doesn’t know what to do with Louis, either. The girls are young and cheerful. They fit into dad’s spacious flat, with his young wife and blotchy, cooing baby.

Louis doesn't fit. So he acts out. He makes new friends, bad ones. 

They drag him out of school to smoke weed, and teach him to shotgun beers. Things are fine. Good, even. Because it's different with them. He’s no longer the kid with the dead mum. He’s someone, now. An _angry_ someone. They remind him how angry he should be. At his mum, his dad, at the _world_.

He learns that he’s good at being angry. 

* * *

Zayn changes everything.

When they meet, it’s summer. Louis is lost, and Zayn is covered in blood.

The anti-war demonstration is in full swing, the streets crammed with hot bodies. Louis’s looking for his dealer— a rail thin nobody that graduated a few years ahead of him. The search is futile— the crowd swells, pushing him down all the wrong streets. Thrown elbows do no good— the protesters seemingly immune to such petty offenses. Seeing no way out, Louis relaxes, allowing the crowd to push him forward. 

Until his foot catches on _something,_ and he’s face first on the asphalt.

The roadblock that sent him flailing— a bloodied figure contorted on the street—seems unconcerned by the wave of people moving above him, stepping on his hands and kicking his head.

Louis struggles to his feet. “Are you okay?”

The figure— a boy, no older than himself— cracks one eye open, dark brows furrowed. “I’m dead.”

The alarm snakes its way up Louis' throat.“Is—is that your blood? Do you need help?”

The boy's irritation grows. “I’m _protesting_ , same as you.”

“I'm not— I, should I call someone? Did you hit your head?”

“It’s _fake,_ ” he insists, as if it's obvious. 

“What—”

“The blood, it isn't real."

Louis feels the familiar boil of anger beneath his skin. "Are you insane?"

The boy grins. "No, but I am due for a break. Help a lad out?"

Louis _knows_ he should leave, but intrigue beats rationality. He offers the boy a hand.

"I'm Zayn. Wanna grab something to eat?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes!  
> send comments/questions/concerns to stickingwithlou on tumblr, or comment below


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